


you have not lived without war

by ingwertee



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: post-war politics, should you wish to read in hakoda/bato ... I will not stop you, sokka & a bullet journal, trying to casually work "economic stimulus package" into this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingwertee/pseuds/ingwertee
Summary: Sokka raises a finger, mouth open, ready to spew out a whole list of ideas. Zuko’s right, plans are his thing. He helped end a hundred-year war with them. Blueprints, to-do lists, hastily-written letters to top officials. And schedules. Always schedules.But as he holds his father’s gaze and waits for a fully-formed plan to appear in his mind at will, he finds his mind is blank. The part of his brain that used to flash red, that used to scream war war war war until Sokka came up with some idea to quell his fear, he finds is quiet.--Sokka has trouble adjusting to a world without bloodshed. He sets his focus on the revitalization of the Southern Water tribe, convinced it's only a matter of time before his tribe is thrust into battle again.
Relationships: Bato & Hakoda (Avatar), Sokka & Suki & Zuko, Sokka/Suki (Avatar)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	1. still waters and ragged breaths

He can’t sleep in the quiet anymore. 

It’s strange. He’s slept everywhere – in caves and trees and igloos and on dirt and boats and even elaborate mattresses every once in a while. It’s not the location that’s the problem, it’s the noise. More precisely, the lack of noise.

White noise helps him space out, helps distract him from his endless thoughts, so it doesn’t help that the Southern Water tribe at night doesn’t sound like anything. Not like the other places he’d visited in his journeys with the Avatar. The Fire Nation’s Capital City and Ba Sing Se sound like…they sound like, well, industrialization. Militarization. The rumble and roar of factories and the workers within them putting in endless hours, all throughout the night, in pursuit of their efforts to advance, to overpower. 

The Northern Water tribe sounds like opportunity, like lapping waves against ships. Like shoes crunching against snow, people fishing at dusk with the moon to guide them. Of the clink of hammers against ice, of carving military and economic advancements from the frozen tundra. 

But when Sokka returns home after the war ends (what a simple word to encompass a generation and a generation and a generation’s worth of bloodshed), all he hears is silence. All he hears is still waters and the sound of his own ragged breaths. 

\--

After Fire Lord Ozai is stripped of his powers, after he is thrown in jail and the Fire Nation crumbles, Chief Hakoda insists Sokka recover before he travels. Travel where, Sokka wonders. This is it. The war is over. There’s nowhere else to go, now. Sokka is delirious, his heart pounds and his leg throbs, and the cheers of his tribesmen around him both exhilarate and terrify him. He wavers, overwhelmed, and accidentally puts pressure on his bad leg. He falls on his rear with a cry and blacks out before his head hits the pavement. 

He wakes up in an infirmary somewhere in the maze-like fortress that belongs to the Fire Lord. He does not know how he got here, and for a second he believes he has been captured. He tenses, mind racing, but then he spots Zuko in the bed next to him. And next to Zuko, in between their two beds, sits General Iroh. 

Iroh does not notice Sokka stir, too preoccupied gripping Zuko’s hand.

“Nephew,” Iroh whispers, voice strained. He does not say anything else. It is not the beginning of a statement. It is a plea.

Fire Nation physicians surround Zuko’s bed. Two, three maybe. Sokka does not see his sister or any healers among them. One holds Zuko’s arm down. The other two attend to the bandages around Zuko’s chest. They are soiled with blood; they must be changed. 

Zuko is awake, teeth clenched. He cannot help but cry out when the physicians finally remove the bandaging from his chest. He arches away from them, tries to become smaller, smaller. Tries to shrink into himself until he is nothing but the hand Iroh grips in his own, sheltered from harm.

“You must continue to be brave.” Iroh says, voice strong enough to carry over Zuko’s heaving breaths. “You are brave, my nephew. You must continue to—”

“U-Uncle.” Zuko forces out, a command for something Iroh cannot discern. 

“I am here.” Iroh says. It is all he can say.

The physicians clean the wound, and Sokka sees one woman inject Zuko with something. Sokka wants to say something, wants to protest, wants to ask what she’s doing, but she is quick with her work, and soon Zuko’s head lulls back, his body slackens, and he rests. 

Eventually the physicians leave, and Iroh shifts his weight, lets go of Zuko’s sweaty hand. He looks towards the boy on the other side of him, but Sokka senses the eyes of the general on him. He pretends he is asleep. 

\--

He dreams of being blind, of complete and utter darkness. He dreams of his hand gripping Toph’s, except in his dream, he is Toph. On the zeppelin, during the Battle. Feet dangling in the air, unable to feel. One hand gripping Sokka’s hand hard. In his dreams, he – that is, Toph – always falls. But she cannot feel the air, cannot sense it, and certainly cannot see it. She cannot see how far yet she has to fall before it’s over, before she can die. She always keeps falling. She falls and falls until Sokka feels a lurching deep in his chest, and he awakens as he hits the water.

Despite his trouble sleeping, Sokka’s dreams do not torture him the way Zuko’s do. For this, Sokka must be grateful. Sokka wakes in the infirmary after four or five hours of sleep, eyes flying open, heart pounding. But he has not cried out. He has not kicked away the covers. No one suspects the nature of his dreams. 

Zuko, next to him in the infirmary, sleeps less, three hours at most. He whimpers in his sleep. Sometimes his body thrashes. Most times, when Sokka is awoken by Zuko’s cries, by the rustle of his legs under the covers, he finds Zuko curled in on himself, his arms covering his face. Protecting his face. 

He does not know if it is his place, but he tells Katara. Then he tells Iroh. He thinks, between the two of them, one will be able to help Zuko. He does not consider that he might need help for his own nightmares. 

\--

Hakoda takes him from the infirmary after a week of resting his broken leg. Sokka has been itching to leave the infirmary since day two, so when his father enters and hands him a pair of handmade, wooden crutches, engraved with sacred symbols of the Southern Water tribe, Sokka brightens. 

“Hey, Zuko!” He says, “check me out!” He feels giddy for the first time since the Battle. He hobbles around the room, weaving around the empty beds. (The infirmary was meant for many soldiers, but no one dared put anyone else in the same room as the Fire Lord. Sokka was allowed in only at Zuko’s request. They’ve been alone together for days.)

“I’m jealous.” Zuko says. He’s sitting up in bed, arm cradled against his stomach awkwardly. His bare chest is still mostly shrouded in white bandaging, and he is in pain. But he smiles at his friend, and it is genuine. 

“You will be well enough soon, Fire Lord Zuko.” Hakoda assures him. Zuko looks down, not yet used to the title. 

“Yes.” Zuko says after a moment. “I can’t – I can’t waste more time.” 

“It is never a waste of time to look after your own health.” Hakoda counters gently. 

“Dad,” Sokka insists. “C’mon, there’s tons to do. To plan.” 

Zuko attempts to smile again. “Sokka’s the plan guy.”

“Hm.” Hakoda says. “And so, Sokka? What is your plan? What are you going to do, now?” 

Sokka raises a finger, mouth open, ready to spew out a whole list of ideas. Zuko’s right, plans are his thing. He helped end a hundred-year war with them. Blueprints, to-do lists, hastily-written letters to top officials. And schedules. Always schedules. 

But as he holds his father’s gaze and waits for a fully-formed plan to appear in his mind at will, he finds his mind is blank. The part of his brain that used to flash red, that used to scream war war war war until Sokka came up with some idea to quell his fear, he finds is quiet. 

His smirk fades. In his peripheral vision, he sees Zuko look down. 

Sokka shrugs, sheepish. “I guess I don’t have one yet.”

Hakoda has proven his point, but he does not gloat. Instead, he looks grim. “You have not lived without war.” He says, his strong arms crossing against his chest. “I have not either. There will be much uncertainty for some time to come.” 

“N-negotiations.” Sokka says, too late. He’s finally come up with something. The word rolls off his tongue weird. It is not a word that is part of his vocabulary. He has not said it before. He clears his throat, tries again. “Negotiations.” 

“Hm.” Hakoda says. He nods curtly, as if to acquiesce the point, as if to say, yes, that. But it’s a word he too only knows of vaguely. A distant concept. He does not say anything more on the subject, for despite his son’s friendship with the new Fire Lord, the viability of negotiations, of diplomacy between tribes, kingdoms, and nations, after all this time, seems near impossible. 

“Come, Sokka,” he says instead. “It’s time for us to return home.” 

\--

They gather one last time before the journey home. Zuko, Sokka, Katara, Aang, Toph, Suki. 

It’s a beautiful day out, and Zuko feels well enough to take them to see the turtleducks. Hakoda has given them the morning together. He and the rest of the tribesmen are preparing the ships. But despite this freedom, despite this morning together, there’s a pit in Sokka’s stomach. At any point, Hakoda could return, and when he did, Sokka would have to go with him. Everyone would separate. The anticipation of Hakoda’s appearance casts an ominous shadow over the group. 

They lay together in the grass underneath a tree, these friends, these child soldiers. The pond stretches out in front of them. Zuko’s the furthest back, leaning against the trunk of the tree gingerly. Suki sits near him, cross-legged, short hair pulled back. She runs her hands through Sokka’s thick hair, which he’s let loose for once. His head rests in her lap, near her knee. He’s facing towards the pond, looking up at Toph, who’s sprawled a little further away, palms and feet planted firmly in the ground. She leans back, eyes cast towards the sky. 

Katara rests near Sokka’s feet. She’s looking up towards the sky, too, hands folded over her chest. She’s contemplative. Sokka wants to say something to her. She’s always been contemplative, but he used to assume she thought about when their dad would return, or when she could go penguin sledding again. Or girl stuff. You know, whatever girls think about. Now he doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Not about war, he hopes. Not her, too. 

And then there’s Aang, further up still, feet dangling in the pond. He’s on his back, a turtleduck nestled into his yellow shirt. 

And it’s Aang who breaks the silence, with a forlorn sigh, and then a question. “Are we sure this is a good idea?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Toph pipes up. “Because if we don’t, then I’m not going.” 

There’s a pause, and Aang lifts the turtleduck off his chest so he can flip around, water splashing with him as he moves his feet. He flops onto his stomach, places the quacking turtleduck on his back, and looks to Sokka. 

He had half been lulled to sleep by the soft repetition of Suki’s caresses, but he opens his eyes when Aang and Toph stop talking. He knows they’re looking to him for a response. 

“C’mon guys,” he says, and he thinks about sitting up but can’t quite bring himself to. “What’s the big deal? It’s not forever.” 

“It kinda is.” Toph points out. 

“It just won’t be the same anymore.” Aang says. “All of us, together like this.” 

“Once Sparky’s Fire Lord, it’s over.” Toph says. 

“I already am Fire Lord.” Zuko reminds her. 

“Ugh.” Toph groans. 

“Sokka, can’t you do something?” Aang asks. “I mean, don’t you have a plan?” 

“Sokka’s been asleep half the week, Aang.” Suki says. “All he has is bedhead.” 

“No fair—” Sokka starts.

“But—” Aang says at the same time.

“Aang.” Katara says. It’s supposed to come off as playfully chiding, maybe, maybe that’s what she thought it would sound like, but her voice is firm, and Aang snaps his mouth shut. She flushes when everyone looks at her, surprised. 

“This is our duty.” She says simply, sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest. “Zuko has to lead the Fire Nation. The Kyoshi warriors will protect him. Dad and Sokka are going back home to help rebuild our tribe. Toph is going home.” She grows resolute. “And you and I are going where we’re needed. Where we can help.” 

Aang nods. “Okay.” He says. 

There’s a beat of silence, as the gravity of Katra’s words sink in, and then Toph’s ready to complain again. “I get why Sokka’s going home, but why do I have to go?” 

“What do you mean, you get why Sokka’s going home?” Katara asks. 

“C’mon, Katara,” Toph says. “I can’t see, but I know it’s not exactly Ba Sing Se where you’re from. You’ll need all the help you can get.” 

“And why would I want to live in Ba Sing Se, exactly?” Katara retorts, nose screwed up. 

“Hey, you two promised no fighting.” Aang says. 

Sokka adjusts his head on Suki’s knee, until he faces away from the younger ones. All the help you can get, he thinks. Toph’s right about one thing: the Southern Water tribe certainly had a long way to go before it met Ba Sing Se standards. Funny how two places, his village and that massive city, could fare so differently during the same war, against the same enemy. How one could grow large and the other could shrivel up. 

Sokka catches Zuko’s gaze. The young Fire Lord is staring at him, the look on his face indecipherable. Unlike Toph, Zuko has been to the Southern Water tribe before. Zuko’s seen Sokka’s village. Perhaps he knows what Sokka is thinking. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. 

Sokka turns his face back into Suki’s knee. He waits for his father. 

\--

The journey by ship is long, tedious with his hobbling around the ship in his nervousness. There’s altogether a sense that their journey home could be marred by retaliatory attacks. Hakoda gives orders to his warriors the whole time. The war may be over, but Hakoda would still have three, four men at a time on the lookout. He would still pace up and down the ship the whole time. It’s the first test of the supposed peace between the Fire Nation and the rest of the world. Let us return home, let us leave peacefully, and we’ll take you at your word when you say no more war.

Bato takes pity on Sokka, who tries valiantly to pace alongside his father, until the clunk of his crutches against the wood of the ship irritates Hakoda, and he tells Sokka to sit, to stop trying to bore a hole into the ship. 

Bato finds Sokka pouting on a bench near the side of the ship, head in his hands. He sits with him, hands him a piece of ash banana. 

“What a fruit.” Bato says, by way of conversation. He looks worse for wear, a gash healing on his neck. His burned side marred and red. He’s still got a marking on the inside of his wrist, a symbol hastily stamped onto his skin at the Capital City prison. Prisoner of war. As if to distinguish him from whom, Sokka thinks, everyone in that prison was a prisoner of war. 

Sokka notices the marking when Bato hands him the piece of fruit. He takes the fruit from Bato’s outstretched hand, but it doesn’t taste like anything to him. 

“You are at an advantage, Sokka.” Bato says, and he attempts to sound light, casual. “You must remember our village better than I do. I am afraid I don’t remember much of our home at all.” 

“Really?” Sokka says. 

“Oh yes.” Bato nods. Chews thoughtfully. “When you have been gone as long as your father and I have, and in the conditions we were in, it can be difficult to think of anything but war.” He catches Sokka’s eye. “Or, perhaps you do understand.” 

“I remember my village.” Sokka says. He puts his head in his hands. “But I don’t remember my village without war.” 

“No.” Bato says. “There’s no one alive who does.” 

Sokka nods. He wants to add, I don’t even remember my mother, not really. He wants to add, I think I should remember my mother. I wish I could remember my mother. 

But instead, he reaches out his hand, silently. Bato places another nub of ash banana in his open palm. They eat. 

\--

The little ones always wanted him to solve everything. Either that, or he made them believe he could solve everything, like speaking loud enough and being a few years older automatically meant he was wise, all-knowing. (Sokka doesn’t think of himself as wise, not really. More so scrappy, resourceful. Desperate on his bad days.)

But at the abandoned air temple, when he and his friends hid from the world and slept on rolled-out mats on the stone floor, Sokka often awoke to Toph or Aang tugging at his arm. 

“Sokka, didn’t you say today was the day we’d need to travel for food?” Aang says. He’s on his knees, head tilted, looking intently at Sokka. 

“It better be.” Toph adds, kneeling next to Aang. “I’m not eating the same thing again.” 

Sokka rolls onto his back, rubbing at his eyes. When he opens them, finally, Aang and Toph are still waiting for an answer.

“We have enough food.” He says tiredly. 

“But—”

“Guys, look.” Sokka’s awake now, begrudgingly. He reaches towards his bag next to him and pulls out a scroll, spreads it out. 

“I assume you’re showing me a piece of paper.” Toph says dryly. 

“Hold on, I’ll tell you what it says.” Sokka says. It takes him some time to decipher his own manic scribbles. 

“It’s the schedule.” Aang says with some awe in his voice. 

“And according to the schedule,” Sokka says, finally finding what he’s looking for, “we’ve got another day of cabbage soup ahead of us.” 

“You’re kidding.” Toph groans. “This is worse than prison.” 

Sokka glances at Suki, asleep on the other side of the campfire.

“I guess one more day will be fine.” Aang says, nodding to himself. “We can’t risk being seen.” 

“Half the Fire Nation is looking for us.” Sokka adds. “And Aang has to train.” 

“Aang can’t train if he’s—” 

“Toph, trust me. The Fire Nation could attack at any moment. We have to keep our guard up. No leaving the temple unless we have to.” Sokka interrupts. “Suki and I will try to find some fruit today while you train. But no leaving the temple. Got it? I’d rather have a hungry Avatar than a kidnapped Avatar.” 

“Okay, Sokka.” Aang says. He smiles at Sokka, then turns to Toph. “C’mon, Toph, let’s train.” 

“Fine.” Toph says, but despite her tone, Sokka knows she understands. She lets Aang pull her up, and then the two disappear into the soft light of dawn, off to prepare for a battle that could come any day, in spite of the most detailed of plans. 

\--

“We’re here.” Hakoda says when the ship finally pulls up to the snow-covered shore of the Southern Water tribe. He smiles, and it’s perhaps the first time Sokka has seen him smile so broadly in years. Years. His father turns towards Bato, his best friend, his blood brother, and claps him on the shoulder. “Bato, we’re home.” 

Bato stands next to him at the front of the ship, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s good to be back.” He says. There’s a catch in his throat. 

“Sokka,” Hakoda turns towards his son, eyes glimmering. “Do you see? This is why we went to war. To protect our home, our culture. We are lucky to return.” 

Sokka looks out at the village. From his vantage point, he sees his people gathering already, ready to welcome their chief back, the rest of their warriors. He sees them but he cannot discern one person from the other from so far away. Instead, his eyes float over to the watchtowers, destroyed, decaying. The walls of ice, the village’s first line of defense, now cracked and toppled. He sees a smattering of simple, seal-skin tents, some igloos. And further out, the ruins of what used to be the central hub of the whole tribe. Destroyed long ago by the Fire Nation. Now the Southern Water tribe consisted of this, these small villages scattered around, with nothing to connect them. 

As a child, with a mom and a dad and a sister and Gran-Gran and penguin sledding and a small wolf tail and a child-size boomerang and all the fish he could eat, Sokka believed his home was paradise. That he had everything he needed. He didn’t know another world existed, he didn’t know a world outside of his village could be real. 

But it’s hard to maintain that fantasy with 80-odd years of war looming just over his shoulders, a growing shadow over his childhood. Sokka lasts five, maybe six years before his first Fire Nation raid. And then he learned of a world outside of his own, of lands without snow and ice, but flames as hot as the sun, of power won by malice, of strength taken from stolen lives.

Now, Sokka looks out at his village, his home, and he sees a tribe isolated and impoverished. He remembers the murders of his village’s benders. If he thinks long enough about it, he begins to imagine Katara, dragged against her will through the snow by a Fire Nation soldier, screaming, the last water bender of their tribe. Sokka doesn’t let himself think about this. 

So when his father says “home,” when his father says “lucky,” and when Bato wipes a tear from rolling down his cheek, Sokka tries to muster up the same response. 

“It’s good to be back.” He says, uncertain, and lets himself be helped off the ship. 

\--

This is how Sokka comes to lay awake at night.

His first night home there is a celebration. He sits with the rest of the returned warriors and they are served a feast. It seems that the villagers have amassed all the food they could muster, speared every fish in the sea, and presented their bounty to the warriors. Hakoda is grateful. He grows emotional again, Sokka can tell, though he hides it well. Sokka just thinks about the waste of fish, thinks that the villagers – his people – don’t have the food to spare, don’t have access to markets or an abundance of produce. This doesn’t stop him from eating; he’s always hungry, and tonight is no exception. But he thinks about this as he eats. He fills his stomach and feels doubly guilty when he accepts a second fish. 

There is a celebration, too. A large fire, singing, dancing. The warriors are presented with handmade gifts. Sokka is presented a wolf pelt by a small girl. Where did you get this? he wonders, what money could you have gotten for this if you had sold it? What did you do with the meat?

But instead he says, “No way.” He means this enthusiastically. He tries again. “No way!” he says. Then: “This is great.” 

Gran-Gran watches the celebration from a distance. She does not make her way forward in the crowd until the fire begins to die down, until the dancing comes to an end. It is dark by then, and Sokka can barely see but he spots his grandmother’s face in the flickers of light left. 

“Gran-Gran!” he says, and for the first time since his return his heart fills. He hobbles over to her as fast as he can, throws his arms around her. Buries his face in the fur of her coat. 

“My grandson.” Gran-Gran says, and she holds him tight when his shoulders start to shake. 

“I missed you.” Sokka says, voice muffled against her shoulder. 

“I missed you more.” Gran-Gran says. She pulls back so she can look at her grandson. Wipes a tear from his face with a calloused hand. He flushes, embarrassed. 

“Sokka,” she says. “You came back. I knew you would.” She smiles. “I’m so proud of you.” She wipes another tear that’s fallen down his cheek. “And you protected your sister.” 

He thinks of Katara, burned, healing herself. He thinks of Katara, falling sick while trying to help Sokka recover from his own illness. He thinks of the countless scratches and bruises and red eyes and near-death experiences from which he couldn’t spare his sister. 

“I tried,” he says. “I tried, anyway.” 

“You did.” Gran-Gran says. “Now, come. You must be exhausted. I will take you to your tent.” 

“My tent?” 

“Oh yes. You are a man now. And a man deserves his own place to stay.” Gran-Gran says easily. She slips an arm through his and tugs him along. 

\--

His father brings the wolf pelt to him, arranges it on the floor of the tent and sets Sokka’s crutches to the side, along with Sokka’s bag and his other possessions. (it’s just the bag and his boomerang, he does not own much.)

Sokka sets out a sleeping mat on the ground and slowly lowers himself onto it. His leg aches. 

“I will check on you in the morning.” Hakoda says. 

“I don’t understand why I can’t stay with you.” Sokka says. 

“You need rest.” Hakoda says. “I will receive visitors all night. Our people will have questions for their chief. They will have much to discuss. And they have waited long enough to hear from me.” 

“I can help, too.” Sokka insists. 

“Not without rest.” Hakoda says. 

“Dad, I’m not a kid.” Sokka says. “Not anymore.”

“Hm.” Hakoda says. He nods but offers nothing else on the subject. “Sokka,” he says. “Your help will be crucial in the coming weeks. We must gather all the information we can from our people. We must learn what we have missed while we were at war.” 

“And then?” Sokka asks. 

“And then, we must return to the Fire Nation.” Hakoda says. “I will need you by my side during treaty negotiations.”

“And then?” Sokka asks. 

Hakoda’s lips twitch. An almost smile. He rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. “There will be a plan, Sokka, I promise you. We will forge a way forward for our tribe. But not now. Now, we must mourn our dead. We must inventory our losses. We must rest. The Fire Lord has granted us this time; he is right to do so. Rest, Sokka.” 

Sokka flops down on the sleeping mat. He nods. “I get it.” He says. “Rest. Recovery.” 

“Yes.” Hakoda says. He squeezes Sokka’s shoulder. “I will check on you in the morning. Sleep well, son.” 

“Yeah.” Sokka says. He nods. “You too, Dad. And Dad?”

Hakoda turns back around to face his son. “Yes?” 

“Welcome home.” 

“We are lucky.” Hakoda says again.

But when Hakoda leaves and Sokka tries to shut his eyes, he thinks of the wolf pelt, and the fish, and the shoddy defense structures surrounding his home, and his sister and friends, far away from him, separated by miles and miles and miles, and the silence of the village at night does nothing to break through his growing panic. 

He closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, darkness still looms over the village. He wakes up five more times before dawn.


	2. Suki's gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If there are already attempts to usurp power within the Fire Nation, we must act quickly.” Hakoda says after a moment of thought. “We must ensure that we can negotiate terms with the Fire Nation before…” He trails off. He does not know how to finish the sentence. He does not know what comes after this. War, then treaties. This is what he has been taught. This is what he has always imagined. Now they have fought the war. If negotiations do not come next, then what? If the Fire Nation falls into civil war, then what? He would not know where to begin.

A messenger hawk makes its way to the Southern Water tribe on Sokka’s fourth day home, a small package strapped to its talon. When the hawk lands outside of the chieftain’s igloo, it lets out a screech, shivers, and dies. 

It has snowed brutally for the past three days. When Bato emerges from the igloo, dressed in heavy furs, he must push through the heavy winds to pick the bird up by the talon. 

“What is it, Bato?” Hakoda calls from inside the igloo. 

Bato comes back inside, bird in hand. 

“A Fire Nation messenger hawk, Chief Hakoda. Frozen.” Bato says. He suppresses an urge to roll his eyes. “And they say we are a backwards people.” 

Hakoda catches Bato’s look but thinks better than to return it. He might have provided his own retort in the past, while at sea, while at war, but he is no longer on a ship. They are no longer at war. He is the chief of his tribe, and the igloo is full of villagers with demands. 

“And the message?” Hakoda asks instead. 

Bato unravels the rope from the hawk’s talon. Presents the package and letter to the chief. He gives the dead bird to an older woman who awaits her turn to speak to the chief. She is hungry and has mouths to feed besides her own; the meat will go to good use. 

“A letter from Fire Lord Zuko.” Hakoda says. He takes a seat in the chieftain’s chair in the center of the room. He scans the contents of the letter. “He is recovering quickly. We have a week before negotiations begin.” 

Bato nods. “And the package?” 

“For Sokka.” Hakoda says. 

Bato comes forward and collects the package from Hakoda. “I will give it to him.” He says, and before he leaves, he gives a performative bow, not without a grin, which Hakoda sees. Hakoda shoos Bato away; he has villagers with whom to speak. 

\--

With the snowstorm, there has not been much for Sokka to do. He does not trust his crutches on the ice. He asks anyone who will listen for materials – metal, steel, anything – that he could use to weld to the ends of his crutches. He has plans for these wooden pegs. He can make them suitable for all climates. He just needs the materials. 

Very few humor him. Someone offers him stones; Gran-Gran offers him sea prunes. He tosses the stones aside. He eats the prunes. 

So he stays inside. He is visited by healers in the morning (non-benders, of course, there aren’t benders here anymore), Gran-Gran in the afternoon, and he is left alone the rest of the day. Here, too, there is silence. 

When Bato enters the tent with the package, he finds Sokka sitting up, back leaning against his bag, sharpening a knife. 

Sokka has certainly settled into his tent in the past few days. The contents of his bag are strewn on the floor. A stray book from some unknown library. A miniature of a hot air balloon. Blueprints from abandoned projects. Pens, wells of ink. A pocket sun dial from the Earth Kingdom. A roll of bandages. Dried fish jerky. A small compact where Sokka keeps his war paint. An amalgamation of his travels. Bato remembers when all Sokka cared for was his boomerang and forming the perfect snowball. 

“Bato!” Sokka says, looking up when Bato enters the tent. He is excited to have a visitor, any visitor. “Does Dad need my help?” 

“Not yet.” Bato says. “The chief wouldn’t dare interrupt your busy schedule.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sokka grumbles, shoulders drooping. “Good one.” 

“Here.” Bato says with a laugh. He hands the package to Sokka. “For you. From the Fire Nation.” 

“What?” Sokka sets down the knife. He inspects the package, covered in thick paper. It’s slightly wet from the snow, but Sokka can still make out the ink-smudged inscription at the bottom. 

“It’s from Suki!” He gasps, then blushes when he catches Bato raising his eyebrows at him. “It’s from Suki.” He tries again, tone neutral. He tosses the package aside. “I’ll open it later.” 

“Come now.” Bato says. “Don’t wait on my account. I should return to your father, anyway.” 

“Wait—” Sokka says. “Are you sure Dad doesn’t need my help?”

“Your father needs you to regain your strength, Sokka.” Bato says. “When you’re strong enough, he’ll ask for you. Trust me.” 

“I trust you.” Sokka says. Bato nods. Gestures towards the package. 

“I’ll leave you to your love letter.” 

“Pfft.” Sokka scoffs. “Yeah right. Love letter. Good one, Bato—”

But Bato leaves before Sokka can say anything more, and as soon as Sokka no longer hears Bato’s footfalls in the snow, he reaches eagerly for the package. He quickly unwraps what turns out to be a leather-bound journal. It’s nondescript, black, small enough to fit in his coat pocket. He’s grinning before he even flips through the blank pages, imagining the ideas he could jot down here. He had been ripping out pages of the old book to write down his plans. 

There’s a piece of paper that falls out of the notebook as Sokka flips through it. He reaches for it swiftly, catches it before it hits the ground. 

Dear Sokka, Suki has written. 

He likes that. Likes his name in her handwriting. He reads it again. Dear Sokka. 

I hope aren’t going too stir crazy waiting for negotiations, but I’m sure it’s nice to be home. 

Anyway, I thought you could use this journal. You’re always writing or drawing something, it seems like. I hope you like it; I swiped it from the castle. I’m sure it won’t be missed.

“Sweet,” Sokka says to himself, glancing at the notebook with new appreciation. “War bounty.” 

Zuko is slowly healing. There have been attempts at his life recently – I won’t bore you with the details! Zuko was never in any danger with the Kyoshi Warriors protecting him. Some of my girls aren’t totally on board with acting as security for the Fire Lord, but I hope that they come around soon. I think that…I don’t know, I think once there’s a treaty, once someone answers for this war, they’ll feel better. I will too. 

I know you are busy helping your father prepare for the talks. You have a great opportunity to help shape the future of your tribe. I know it. And I know what you’re feeling. The Fire Nation destroyed my home, too. We can both help our people. 

Don’t wear yourself out. I expect to see you soon. And I miss you.

Get some rest!

Suki

Sokka’s heart beats fast when he finishes the letter. He reads it again, then again. He thinks of Zuko in the infirmary, thinks of how he begged for his uncle and slept with his hands sheltering his scar. Attempts at his life? In his weakened state?

It was easy to keep track of his friends when he could see them every day. When he knew his sister was just around the corner or that his friends were nearby. It was easy to catalogue injuries then. 

Now he reads of Suki fending off would-be assassins and it’s all in past tense, and there’s nothing Sokka could have done to help. And he hasn’t heard from Aang or Toph or Zuko or Katara, not even Katara, it’s only been a few days but he wants to know if Katara is okay, he—

Sokka reads the letter again, tries to calm his breathing. Great opportunity, he reads. Maybe Suki was right. He might not be able to help his friends right now, but he could help his people. He could help his tribe. 

Sokka flips to the journal’s first page, reaches for his pen. He begins to write. 

\--

When night falls that evening, Hakoda enters Sokka’s tent, Bato at his heel. The appearance of the two men alarms Sokka at first – he thinks, the attempts at Zuko’s life have worked, he thinks, we’re at war again. 

But Bato brings stew, and Hakoda smiles at Sokka warmly, albeit tiredly. They are here to keep him company. Sokka relaxes.

“Dad,” Sokka says excitedly when Hakoda settles onto the floor of the tent, cross-legged, and sets about feeding the small campfire. “Look what I got. From Suki!” 

Hakoda takes the journal from his son’s outstretched arm, glances at it favorably. “I see you have already begun to use it,” he says as he flips through some of the pages. “Is this a fish?” he asks politely, showing Sokka a drawing he had done earlier that afternoon. 

“Dad, that’s Appa.” Sokka says. “Don’t you see the arrow?” 

Hakoda looks at the drawing again, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes,” he says with no amount of confidence. “Of course.” He flips a page or two. “You have been busy today,” he says. 

“I have ideas.” Sokka says. “Our walls, our watchtowers, we need to be stronger. We’ve got to be ready.”

“Ready.” Hakoda echoes. “For another fight, you mean.” 

“That’s just what I need.” Bato says. “I just got back home.” He and Hakoda exchange a look. Bato serves the stew. 

“You are smart to be prepared.” Hakoda says. He hands the journal back to Sokka. “Hopefully we will not need to implement your plans so soon.” 

“But—”

“Peace talks begin next week.” Hakoda says. “I received word from Fire Lord Zuko today.” 

“I know, I know, but—”

“And we would be wise to give our new allies the benefit of the doubt.” Hakoda continues. “If they think we are preparing for another war, they may not wish to negotiate with us.” 

If the Fire Nation or anyone else thinks the Southern Water tribe is preparing for war, Sokka thinks, they would laugh in our faces. 

“I would have hoped for more time before these talks.” Bato says. “It will take us days to travel to the Capital City again.” 

“There may not be time,” Sokka says. “Dad, Suki wrote me.” 

“Ah, Suki—”

“Yeah, Suki!” Sokka says excitedly, then flushes. “Yeah. Anyway, she told me that there have been assassination attempts against Zuko already.” 

“That was fast.” Bato says under his breath. 

“Is he all right?” Hakoda asks. 

Sokka shrugs. “I guess so.” Then, defeatedly: “I don’t know.” 

“Bah, with the Kyoshi Warriors protecting him?” Bato says. 

“And that uncle.” Hakoda adds. “He’s very well protected.” 

They eat silently for a moment. Sokka finds he is starving. He readily accepts a second helping from Bato. 

“If there are already attempts to usurp power within the Fire Nation, we must act quickly.” Hakoda says after a moment of thought. “We must ensure that we can negotiate terms with the Fire Nation before…” He trails off. He does not know how to finish the sentence. He does not know what comes after this. War, then treaties. This is what he has been taught. This is what he has always imagined. Now they have fought the war. If negotiations do not come next, then what? If the Fire Nation falls into civil war, then what? He would not know where to begin.

“Unless there is no attempted coup at all,” Bato muses, “and these attacks come from outside of the Fire Nation.” 

“That would be an act of war.” Hakoda says. 

Bato hums in agreement. He sets down his empty bowl. “I find that many acts may be considered one of war.”

Sokka shakes his head. “But that’s crazy. Whoever’s trying to kill Zuko has to understand that he’s not his father. He’s good!” 

“Fire Lord Zuko, though your friend, has yet to prove anything to the world.” Hakoda says. 

“But successfully negotiating a peace treaty,” Bato says. “That would prove quite a lot.” 

“Then we have to do our part.” Sokka says. “We have to be prepared.” 

“We must be.” Hakoda says. “There is no other option for our tribe.” 

\--

Sokka dreams he is deep in the woods of an Earth Kingdom forest. In his dream, Aang and Katara are asleep, nestled into Appa’s fur. Sokka paces the perimeter around Appa, again and again and again. He’s holding his sword. 

“Space sword!” he exclaims, gripping the hilt. “Good to have you back.” 

In his dream, Sokka does not grow tired. He’s alert, turning at every noise, sword raised. He lunges forward at the breaking of a stick, but finds only Momo, who jolts, but climbs onto his back, tail resting over his shoulder. 

“Sorry about that, Momo.” Sokka says. He continues to pace.

Eventually, dawn breaks, and the first glimmers of sunrise appear on the forest floor. Still, Sokka does not grow tired. But sounds begin to warp. Buzzes become roars, snaps of twigs become explosions. The sounds are deafening. 

“Sokka?” he hears his sister say. She’s pressing her hands against her ears. “What’s happening? Sokka!”

“Katara!” He calls back, but then he can’t see her. He’s pulled away from Aang and Katara, far into the forest, until he can no longer see Appa’s great white outline amongst the green. He tries to grab onto a tree, tries to stop himself from moving against his will. Momo grips him hard with his paws. His nails dig into Sokka’s shoulders until he begins to bleed. 

“Katara!” he yells again, but it’s no use. All he hears is the sound of explosions, and he’s moving so fast he can’t make out anything around him, and then—

Sokka awakens with such a start that his whole body jerks forward. His bad leg twists uncomfortably. He hisses, arching forward and grabbing his leg. 

Light slips through the opening of his tent. Sokka works on controlling his breathing, but doesn’t miss the rustle at the opening of his tent. 

There’s a small boy peeking into his tent, maybe six years old. He wears full-face war paint and a heavy fur coat. His long, dark hair is pulled back and trails down past his shoulders. When Sokka spots him, the boy jolts up, and his face disappears. 

“Hey!” Sokka says. His voice is scratchy – had he been calling for Katara in his sleep? – he has to clear his throat. “Come back!” he tries again. 

There’s a pause, and then the boy returns. Pokes his head into the tent again. Doesn’t say anything. Gives Sokka another wide-eyed stare. 

“You’re Sokka.” The boy says finally. 

“Uh, yeah.” Sokka says. He’s sweating despite the coldness of the outdoors, and he wipes his face on his shirtsleeve, embarrassed. “That’s me.” 

The boy lets out a soft gasp, and then bows. “I’m Taktuq.” He says. Then: “These are for you.” He disappears, and then appears again, pushing forward Sokka’s crutches. Iron spikes had been fastened to the end of them, to navigate through the snow.

“Wha—when did—who—?”

“My father.” Taktuq says. “He fixed them last night while you were asleep.” He bites his lip. “You are not a quiet sleeper.” 

Sokka jerks his head up. “Yes I am!” he protests, but his voice cracks, gives away the truth again. He clears his throat hurriedly, flushing. That couldn’t be true, he thinks. He sleeps fine. It was Zuko who had trouble sleeping. Zuko who had the scar and the bandaged chest and the assassination attempts. Sokka sleeps fine. 

Taktuq can tell he has offended Sokka. He bows again. “Goodbye.” He says. 

“Wait.” Sokka says again, a little frustrated. The boy turns back around, same wide-eyed look on his face. “The snowstorm stopped?” 

“Uh huh.” Taktuq nods. “This morning.” 

Sokka nods. “Well,” he says, reaching for his crutches. “I’m going on a walk. Wanna join me?” 

(For months and months I traveled with a ragtag group of runaways and orphans, and for the longest time we did everything together, ate the same food, slept around the same campfire. Now we’re separated and I’m alone. I haven’t spoken to another person close to my age since I’ve returned, I’ve just been stuck inside this tent all day and you’re not even close to my age, you’re a kid, and I haven’t felt like a kid since my mom died and I—)

“C’mon,” Sokka says, hoisting himself up. “I want to take a look around.” 

\--

The clouds have finally parted on the Southern Water tribe, and for the first time since his return, Sokka sees the sun. The sunlight illuminates the village, makes it seem more idyllic, all sparkling snowflakes and glistening ice. Like the village of his childhood. 

With the warriors back, the village does appear more like its old self. There are people out and about this morning already, families heading out to fish, tending to fires. There’s a young soldier, still in uniform, who stands outside his tent and stares down at a young girl while she makes a snowball. He looks slightly bewildered. A daughter born after he went to fight. He must now learn all he has missed of this child’s life. 

Sokka and Taktuq walk past a line of villagers outside of the chieftain’s igloo again. Sokka suspects his father is already hard at work, well before Sokka awoke. 

“You wanna see the watchtower?” Taktuq asks. He’s walking ahead of Sokka, keeps turning around every few seconds to make sure he’s still upright. Sokka’s slow this morning even without the crutches – he stops to make notes in his journal, sketches, lists of observations, everything. 

“Of course.” Sokka says, and Taktuq smiles. 

“Over here!” he says, and he heads towards the left, turning sharply. 

“Hey,” Sokka says, struggling to keep up. “How come I haven’t met you before?” 

Taktuq shrugs. “I dunno. Mom said I couldn’t train with you ‘cause I was too young.” 

“Oh.” Sokka says. “Hey, wait up a sec.” He stops for a moment, leans on his good leg to alleviate some pressure. Then he fishes his journal out of his coat pocket. Training academy, he writes. For benders and non-benders. Two academies? One big academy. Mandatory. 

He pauses. Looks over at a tent to his left, of the mother sifting through a bowl of rotten sea prunes, trying to see if any are salvageable. 

Free. He writes. Masters funded by the tribe. Tribal funding from

His mind draws a blank. He tries again. Tribal funding from 

“Are you done yet?” Taktuq asks. 

“Yeah.” Sokka says after a moment, eyebrows furrowed. He shuts the book. “Coming.” 

\--

Taktuq’s family lives in an overcrowded tent near the toppled-over watchtower. He takes Sokka to his tent first. He’s hungry, he says. He wants breakfast. 

So Sokka stares up at the tower, which he himself had designed when he was younger, which he himself had used to watch out for the Fire Nations, for pirates. He sketches the tower as best he can (which to him, is his best, but to others is indecipherable). They’re lacking in the materials to rebuild. He sees his mistake now; if he had used a stronger material to build the tower, maybe it would have stayed put. Maybe it could have been a match for the fire blasts that had destroyed the tower. 

He draws the tower again, imagines reinforced steel in its place, imagines the type of military defenses the Earth Kingdom boasted, that the Fire Nation made in their factories throughout the night. 

“Can you fix it?” Taktuq asks. He’s returned. He’s eating a piece of fish jerky, and he stands on his tiptoes to look at what Sokka’s scrawled into his notebook. “What’s that?” he asks. 

“It’s the tower!” Sokka protests. “Don’t you see the—oh, forget it.”

“You have to fix it.” Taktuq continues, unfazed. “For when the war starts again.” He nods to himself. “Then I’ll look out of it.” 

“That why you have the war paint on?” Sokka, gesturing vaguely towards Taktuq’s painted face. 

“Uh huh.” Taktuq nods. “My dad helped me. I told him I’m gonna be a warrior like him.” 

“Hopefully you won’t have to.” Sokka says. He puts his journal away again. “War’s over.” 

“I don’t think that can be true.” Taktuq says with a frown. “It’s never been over before, how can it be over now?” 

“I don’t know.” Sokka says. “It just is.” 

“I don’t think so.” Taktuq says again. Then: “When the war starts again, will you train me? I’m old enough, now.” 

Sokka thinks, you don’t understand. The fighting has stopped, really. Sokka thinks, we have to be prepared. Sokka says, “sure kid, I’ll train you.” 

“All right!” Taktuq says. 

Sokka lets out a soft laugh. His stomach grumbles. Taktuq hears, hands him a piece of jerky. 

“Hey Taktuq,” Sokka says, “you ever have a papaya?” 

“What’s a papaya?” Taktuq asks. 

“Yeah.” Sokka sighs. “I’ll work on that, too.” 

\--

Sokka once viewed the healing practices of the Southern Water tribe as sacred, as inherently wise. 

He supposes this is true, still. The healers of his tribe are wise, and they still use practices that are older than the war itself. But he also knows, now, that these non-bender healing methods only work so well.

He thinks of the Northern Water tribe’s healers, their ability to cure illnesses, to bind up deep wounds with their bending. Here, where all benders have been murdered, have been taken, Sokka sits silently in an igloo while a trio of elderly women mash up herbs and oil and mix it with water. Instead of bending, they present to him this concoction, and tell him to drink. 

Sokka has visited the healers every day since he has returned. Normally, they visit him. Today, he feels well enough to go to their igloo. He knows this means the medicine is working. He knows that his ability to walk alongside (or close enough to) Taktuq means that his leg is getting better, that he is recovering. Without their help, his leg would take much longer to heal. 

But he can’t help but think that the injured of his tribe could have healed much faster if their benders had not been taken from them. It is not out of concern for his own leg that he grows frustrated. It is for those who could have been saved from illness, from death. 

There was a virus that spread through his village when he was twelve. After his mother’s murder. After his father left. No one knows where it came from; at that point, the Southern Water tribe had become increasingly isolated. Sokka’s Gran-Gran thought the disease might have come from a pirate ship. In those days, pirates still pillaged the tribe’s villages occasionally. This was before they had learned there was little to be gained from such an impoverished village and set their sights elsewhere. 

The disease traveled through the village. Few died, but many grew ill. Katara among them. Sokka did not know what to do. Gran-Gran kept him separated from his sister so that he would not get sick, sent him fishing or off to train for when Hakoda came to take him to battle (in Sokka’s young mind, this could be tomorrow, or the next day, and if not then, then certainly the next day). But Sokka also followed the healers around, tugged on their mitten-covered hands, and asked about his sister constantly, incessantly. The healers took pity on him, the boy without parents, and showed him their medicine, showed him the hot baths. These were sacred practices of their tribe, they told him. The spirits would protect his sister. 

Katara drank the medicine, and slowly grew better. Sokka was so relieved he told himself that the healers of his village were the best in all the tribes and nations. He did not know then that Katara was a healer herself, that if she knew about her healing abilities, she could have gotten better much faster. He did not know of the healers who used to live in his village. 

He drinks the medicine now – it’s paste-like and tastes rotten, he tries not to gag – and wonders if his leg will be strong enough before he has to return to the Fire Nation. He wonders how strong it could be. 

The healers take him to a large basin in the middle of the igloo. The water is heated and mixed with healing oils. They tell him he should soak in the water, that he can lay there for up to thirty minutes or so, until the heat becomes too much and the ceiling of the igloo begins to drip. He nods, says he understands. 

They tell him that Bato has been here often in the past few days, that he submerges in the water up to his neck to fully encompass his burned side. Sometimes he puts his head in, too, and holds his breath for what seems like too long, until the healers feel like they should intervene, but then Bato’s head emerges again, thick strands of hair matted to his face, eyes closed. 

Sokka looks at the healers. He doesn’t feel like he should know this. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks. 

“You should not feel ashamed to ask for healing.” The eldest woman says. 

That’s not it, Sokka thinks. That’s not why I’m ashamed. But he nods, bows in gratitude to the women. They leave the igloo, and Sokka disrobes, undoes the bandaging around his leg, and slowly lowers himself into the warm water. 

He takes his notebook with him and rests his arms against the side of the basin, props the book up, and reviews what he has written. Waits for healing, he supposes. Mostly, he waits for his return to the Fire Nation. For negotiations.


	3. negotiations, day one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aang told me that Zuko told him that someone told him to show up late.” Katara says, leaning over her dad to talk to Sokka. 
> 
> “Why?” Sokka asks. 
> 
> “I don’t know.” Katara shrugs. “Power move?” 
> 
> Sokka hears Bato sigh next to him. He’s been doing that a lot since they arrived.

Sokka’s sick to his stomach just an hour into the treaty negotiations. 

The talks have already devolved into chaos. Earth Kingdom representatives, in their great multitude, stand, yell, shout their demands at the Fire Nation. It’s the same demand, and they ask over and over. 

“Sokka?” Katara reaches for her brother, as his stomach lurches, but Sokka’s already up, already moving as fast as he can, through throngs of people and on a yet-healing leg. 

He vomits into a trash basin just outside the room. He can still hear the yelling before the door slides shut behind him. 

“Urgh,” he spits out, placing his hand on the wall to steady himself. He wipes his mouth against the wraps around his forearm, closes his eyes for a second.

There’s no way, he thinks. There’s no way there’s no way we’re doomed. 

Sokka had underestimated the talks. He hadn’t prepared enough. His tribe – if everyone just wanted to discuss if – they could easily trample over – 

There’s a flurry of robes behind Sokka. He gathers enough energy to turn his head, and sees Zuko emerging from another room, looking pale. He’s trailed by a Kyoshi Warrior. 

“Oh.” Zuko says when he sees Sokka leaning over the trash basin. “You too?” 

Sokka nods, then laughs in spite of himself. “What are we doing, Zuko?” he asks. “What’s happening in there?” 

Zuko shakes his head helplessly. He looks like he might be sick again. He’s drowning in the magnificence of the fire lord’s deep red robes. He moves awkwardly in them, unused to maneuvering so much fabric. 

“We’ll figure it out.” Sokka says to himself. He turns away from Zuko and lets out a breath. He swipes his arm over his sweaty face again. 

“We should go back in.” Zuko says. He sounds uncertain, like he wants Sokka to decide for him. 

“Yeah.” Sokka nods. He spits into the trash. “Okay. Going back in.” 

“Okay.” Zuko says. But he pauses again. Sokka sees weariness etched into the young ruler’s face. He cringes when Sokka places his hand on the sliding doors. 

“Are you going to do it?” Sokka asks, because he knows this is the question Zuko must decide once they return, he knows this is the question Zuko fears. He catches his friend’s eye. “Are you going to kill your dad?” 

\--

Here’s how the day begins. 

At dawn, the Southern Water tribe pulls onto the sandy shore of the Fire Nation. They’re early. Sokka had wanted to be early. He had put it in the schedule, which he had hastily written and handed to his father the night before, and which his father made him rewrite until it was legible enough for anyone other than Sokka to decipher. 

“Dawn?” Hakoda asked. 

“Dawn.” Sokka said. 

“Dawn.” Bato sighed.

So they arrive at dawn, Chief Hakoda and a small group of chosen tribespeople. For some in their group, it is their first time leaving the confines of the Southern Water tribe. For others, like Bato and Sokka, it has not been long enough since their last visit. But familiarity with the Fire Nation capitol does not make the colossal city feel any less ominous. 

Hakoda has chosen eight people in total for these historic talks. Bato and Sokka, of course, two fellow warriors, a teacher, a widow of a bender, and a village elder. The eighth person is Katara; she will meet up with the tribe later in the day, when the talks begin. 

He knows each of these villagers to be thoughtful, intelligent, and resourceful. He knows their insights will prove valuable. He suspects his counterpart, the chief of the Northern Water tribe, will only choose naval officers to join him at the negotiations. This is just as well; Hakoda himself had considered only asking members of his navy. But the nagging feeling at the base of his stomach, the feeling that if the talks erode and the Southern Water tribe is thrust into battle once more, the warriors may die, convinces him otherwise. If war started again, and he himself died, the task of rebuilding the tribe would fall on the shoulders of the villagers. They would need to know how to lead. He asks civilians to join. 

Hakoda warns his people, those new to the Fire Nation, of the change in climate they will experience. Of a sun that rises early and sets late, of a heat that swelters. The chosen nod, and they shed their outer layers for shirtless tunics when they arrive. Without thick coats and mittens, they are a mass of wolf tails and tiger shark teeth strung into bracelets, necklaces, armbands. Dark skin and broad shoulders and braids woven tight. 

Bato is the last of their group off the ship. His sleeveless tunic exposes his bandaged side. On his good arm he wears an identical armband to the one Hakoda wears, and around his neck, two tiger seal teeth strung together by dark rope. Hakoda was with him the day they had caught the tiger seal. They were children; it was their first hunt on their own. Bato had kept the teeth ever since. 

So here they were, the Southern Water tribe. Returned not as soldiers, but as representatives of their tribe, its rich culture, its honor. Not forgotten, as many had suspected. Not all dead. 

“Hm.” Bato says when he pads over to Hakoda in the sand and follows Hakoda’s gaze towards the city, to the tips of buildings so close they’re nearly stacked on top of each other. “Back into the belly of the beast.” 

“Let’s hope for the last time.” Hakoda says. He places a hand on Bato’s shoulder, careful not to press down on his injured side. “I will need your help, my friend.” 

“You always have my support.” Bato returns. The two men watch as Sokka begins to lead the group through the sand, toward the city. He pulls his new journal out of his green bag, consults the schedule. He must be exhausted, Hakoda thinks – he knows his son did not sleep well last night, had not for some time. 

Bato follows Hakoda’s gaze. He nods. “I will keep an eye on him, too.” 

\--

They are the first of the nations to arrive at the Capital City. The sun just begins to rise when their small group reaches the illustrious steps that lead to the fire lord’s castle. They arrive on a small number of dragon moose, which the Fire Nation had provided in anticipation of their arrival.

Sokka is grateful that he doesn’t have to walk multiple miles on his leg. He’s off crutches now, healing fast even without bending. As a preventative measure, the healers had placed a brace around his leg before he left his village. He hobbles more than before, and he’s slow, but he feels more like himself.

“Dad,” Sokka says when Hakoda dismounts the moose and reaches up to help his son down. “Dad, remember that—”

“Chief Hakoda.” Another one of the villagers says, voice urgent. She’s leaning over the village elder, a woman older than Gran-Gran. “It’s too hot for Amka. She’s dehydrated.” 

Hakoda glances quickly at his son – an apology on his lips – before he rushes to help the old woman off the dragon moose. She’s a frail woman; in her sleeveless tunic, her bones jut out. She is nearly as old as the war itself. She has never left her frigid village. 

“Amka,” Hakoda says. He picks her up easily, eyebrows furrowed. Her white hair is matted against her face. She has lost consciousness; her head lulls against Hakoda’s broad chest. 

Bato helps Sokka off the dragon moose. The two warriors stand further to the side and watch as Hakoda begins to ascend the stairs, Amka in his arms. The others walk behind him. 

Bato and Sokka had argued against bringing such an old woman to the talks. It was unlikely she would be around to see any of their plans for the South realized. But Hakoda had insisted; this woman was an elder in their village. There wasn’t anyone wiser in the village; what’s more, there wasn’t anyone who knew the culture of their tribe more. Hakoda had insisted that of crucial importance in the revitalization of their tribe was the emphasis of their cultural traditions. To meet this end, Hakoda invited the elder to attend the talks. Now he carried her. 

“Let’s hope this is not an omen.” Bato mutters. Sokka gulps. 

\--

So the group of nine becomes eight, and really, they are seven, because Katara has yet to join. 

A Fire Nation ambassador greets them at the entrance to the castle; he sees that Amka is taken the to the infirmary, then bows to Hakoda. 

“Chief.” He says. “Good morning.” 

Hakoda nods. His eyes follow the guards who take Amka away. 

“Fire Lord Zuko has invited all those who have already arrived to breakfast before the talks begin.” The man continues. “Shall I tell him when he may expect the rest of your tribal ambassadors?” 

“We wait only on my daughter, Katara.” Hakoda says. 

The man pauses. “I beg your pardon?” he asks. 

“We’re all here.” Sokka speaks up. “There isn’t anyone else coming from the Southern Water tribe.” 

The man stares at Sokka for what feels like too long. Then he blinks, straightens up. “Of course.” He says. “Of course. Well. Well, then, would you please follow me?” 

Hakoda beckons his villagers ahead of him, falls in line with Bato as they are led down a massive, ornate hallway. Bato doesn’t say anything, but his mouth is drawn into a thin line. He’s tense. 

One of the villagers stops to stare at a room to their left, open and vast. Full of golden vases and long, ancient tapestries. “What could this room possibly be used for?” she asks. 

“Extravagance.” Hakoda says, and leads her along. 

“The Earth Kingdom has arrived already.” The man from the Fire Nation says. “You’ll find them inside.” 

“Thank you.” Hakoda says. He nods his gratitude to the man, who bows once more, and then slides open the doors to the vast room before them. 

“What?” Sokka’s shoulders drop before the tribe even steps into the room. He looks like he might collapse. Hakoda reaches out an arm, steadies him. Next to him, Bato closes his eyes and lets out a breath. 

There’s easily over a hundred Earth Kingdom citizens in the room, all distinguished men in expensive robes. Some have stacks of paper, glasses, pipes. Servants. They speak intently with each other, and only notice that the door opens when the Fire Nation ambassador raises his voice. 

“The Southern Water tribe!” He yells, voice loud enough to carry. 

The Earth Kingdom men stop their talking, and one by one, they stare at the sight before them in bewilderment. Chief Hakoda and his ragtag group of villagers – the teenager with the leg brace, the tall man with the bandaged side, the women (the women!), and two warriors who couldn’t be much older than the teenager himself. 

There are some hushed whispers, some mutters, but mostly the Earth Kingdom ambassadors pretend to return to their breakfast. There’s so many of them that soon enough the volume in the room steadily rises once more. It is hard not to hear the glee in their voices. 

\--

The Northern Water tribe is the last to arrive. There are eighty men from the tribe in total, all naval officers in uniform. Their chief leads them down the hall and past the room where the Earth Kingdom breakfasts; he does not wish to socialize. He disappears into the next room, another vast space where the talks will begin in just under an hour.

The Southern Water tribe watches them pass. They’re headed to the same room, but the rank-in-file officers march with such force and precision that Hakoda reaches out a hand to stop his group from getting caught in the middle. 

“Hey, wait a minute—” Sokka says, trying to push past his dad, who still holds him back. “Is that—?” but before he can answer he hears his sister gasp. 

Aang and Katara had wandered in behind the Northern Water tribe, attempting to enter the castle unnoticed. Katara has changed back into her Water tribe tunic. Her long hair is braided loosely and falls down her back. She looks a little tired, but as determined as ever. Next to her, Aang wears his ceremonial outfit, as Katara had suggested. His hands are smudged in dirt; much more of him is, too, but his long sleeves cover the rest of his arms. He uses his staff as a walking stick, and, as always, Momo sits on his shoulders. 

Despite the arrival of the Avatar, Aang and Katara go unnoticed in the throngs of the Northern Water tribe, as they wished. It’s not until Katara spots Sokka that they completely abandon this notion. With a shout, they sprint as fast as they can to their brother. 

“Sokka!” Katara cries as she and Aang crash into Sokka and pull him into a bone-crushing group hug. 

“You have a funny leg brace!” Aang exclaims, but there’s a catch in his voice, and soon he buries his head into Sokka’s tunic and hugs him tighter around the middle. “I missed you,” he says, quieter. 

“I missed you so much.” Katara says, arms around her brother’s neck. She practically hangs off of him. 

“Guys, c’mon…” Sokka says, but he’s as choked up as they are, and he lets Aang squeeze him hard and Katara lean on him too long, and it’s only when his leg starts to ache that he begs out of the hug. 

“Does it hurt?” Aang asks as Katara greets her father. He means Sokka’s leg. He’s got his hands behind his back now, inspecting the brace carefully. “You haven’t had it healed yet?” 

“Katara’s been with you, remember?” Sokka says, but he shrugs. “It’s not bad.” He says. “Don’t worry about it, Aang.” 

“Okay.” Aang nods, but Sokka’s doesn’t quite believe him. 

Sokka holds out his arms for Momo, who climbs onto his shoulders and chirps happily. “Good to see you too, buddy.” He grins. 

“Are we late?” Aang asks as the three begin to follow the growing group of people into the next room. 

Sokka shakes his head. “Right on schedule,” he says. Aang beams at this.

“We’ve been up North.” Katara says, by way of explanation. “Sokka, you wouldn’t believe it. There are entire villages on the outskirts of the City without access to proper food.”

Sokka glances between Aang and his sister, but neither seem to catch on to the irony of her statement. Isolated villages, huh, he wants to say. I may have seen that before. 

“Hey,” he says instead. “You two hungry?” he reaches into his bag and begins to pull out various fruits. “I swiped these at breakfast. You wouldn’t believe how much food there was!” 

“Nice!” Aang says, and eagerly reaches for a mango. “Thanks, Sokka.” 

“How do you feel about today?” Katara asks her brother. “I mean, what’s the plan? Did you see how many people there are here?” 

Sokka hands her an ash banana. “So we’re a little outnumbered.” He says with a forced shrug. “We’re still smarter than them.” 

\--

The negotiation room is much smaller than where the Earth Kingdom had breakfasted; it only allows for ten members of the nations to sit comfortably at tables arranged into a large rectangle. Servants attempt to set up chairs for the rest of the men to sit slightly behind the table. The Southern and Northern water tribes sit perpendicular to each other. The Earth Kingdom sits on the other side of the Northern Water tribe. And across from the Southern Water tribe, with their mish-mash of villagers and empty chairs, sits the Fire Nation. 

Fire Lord Zuko has yet to make an appearance, but two Kyoshi Warriors stand guard at the door. His arrival is much anticipated. 

“Aang told me that Zuko told him that someone told him to show up late.” Katara says, leaning over her dad to talk to Sokka. 

“Why?” Sokka asks. 

“I don’t know.” Katara shrugs. “Power move?” 

Sokka hears Bato sigh next to him. He’s been doing that a lot since they arrived. 

“Any sign of Toph?” Katara asks. 

Sokka shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her. Or Suki.” 

Katara nods, leans back in her chair. She tucks some hair behind her ears, then leans forward again. “And you have a plan, right?” 

“Kids.” Hakoda says from in between them. “Let me think.” 

“Sorry, Dad.” They say at the same time. 

But it’s too late, for the rest of the Kyoshi Warriors enter the room, then, moving in sync with one another. They surround the Fire Lord as he enters the room. 

Zuko walks in line with Aang, and the two are quite the sight – the Fire Lord and his friend, the Avatar. 

Everyone in the room stands when they enter, if only for the sake of being in the presence of the Avatar. The men bow to the Avatar. Zuko steps aside, gives Aang space. 

Aang bows in return, then turns to Zuko. He holds out his hand. Zuko looks startled, like he hadn’t expected this, but reaches out to shake Aang’s hand. A sign of respect. 

“Please,” Zuko says, when he turns back to the dignitaries before him. “Please sit.” 

They do so. Zuko himself takes a seat next to Fire Nation leaders. Aang moves to the opposite side of the room and sits next to Bato in one of the Southern Water tribe’s empty chairs. 

“Thank you all.” Zuko says. “For coming. Uh. I understand. I understand these talks will not be easy. My Nation has much to answer for. But this seems like. This seems like a good first step.” 

He looks down, shuffles some pamphlets that an advisor has placed before him. “We. We have an agenda. We, uh, I think it’s important to hear from each of the nations first. And. And my advisors and I hope we can reach a treaty that is beneficial to all of us.” 

“And who are your advisors?” A distinguished-looking Earth Kingdom man asks. He is barely able to hold in his disdain. “Your father? Your sister? Your uncle?” 

Zuko looks at the man, startled. 

“Tell me why, exactly,” the man continues, “I should place the trust of my people and the future of my kingdom in the hands of Ozai’s son? Your father ordered the deaths of my people, my villages destroyed, my benders silenced. And what exactly did you do to stop him?” 

“And what are you going to do to stop him now?” Another man asks. 

“M-my father is in prison.” Zuko says. “I—”

“I find it hard to believe a prison of any size could keep a man like your father.” 

“We might as well just wait for him to break out and start another war.” 

“Unless you ensure he doesn’t break out.” 

“And how would I do that?” Zuko asks. 

“Why, you execute him, of course.” The man says easily. “Him and your sister.” 

“Let us rephrase.” An ambassador from the Northern Water tribe speaks, now. “We won’t begin any negotiations with your nation until you publicly execute Ozai.” 

“And his daughter. She would have killed even more of us.” 

“You can’t.” Aang says. “You can’t do that!” 

“Gentlemen.” Chief Hakoda interjects. “Surely there are more pressing needs at this time. Fire Lord Zuko is willing to negotiate with us; let us take him at his word. Our people have suffered long enough, my tribe especially—”

“Spare us the sob story, chief.” The Earth Kingdom man interrupts. “The best your tribe can hope for out of this is to become a permanent colony of the Northern Water tribe. One wonders why you were even invited to these talks, except for your obvious allegiance with the Avatar.” 

“The Southern Water tribe has existed for—”

“Lots of things exist for far longer than they should.” The chief of the Northern Water tribe says. “Like a hundred-year war.” 

Sokka begins to feel sick.

“Not one of our nations will exist as they had if we cannot negotiate successfully with—”

“Negotiating with Ozai’s son with Ozai still alive is like negotiating with the man himself. We would be better off returning to the battlefield. Destroying the Fire Nation once and for all.” 

“Death to Ozai!” 

“Death to Ozai!” 

When the Fire Nation ambassadors jump up to protest, and the yelling begins – Aang chief among them, attempting to plead his case for peace – Fire Lord Zuko slips out of the room. Not long later, Sokka does too, clutching his stomach. 

So much for civility. 

\--

There is no hope in returning to diplomacy that day. When Sokka and Zuko return to the room, Aang has all but destroyed the room. He’s bended a rock division between the Earth Kingdom and the Fire Nation, and he stands on top of the rock wall and yells about understanding and pacifism and the Earth Kingdom shouts back their jeers, calling Aang a Fire Nation sympathizer, demanding he leave the talks, him and the rest of his gang of orphaned children with god complexes, or whoever they were supposed to be. 

And the women, the Northern Water tribe insists, gesturing towards the Southern Water tribe, who said women could be invited to these talks? 

Sokka sees his father, sitting down, looking pale. Bato sits next to him. He sharpens a knife and looks disinterested, but Sokka can see how on edge he is. The other villagers from his tribe have begun to squabble with the Northern Water tribe. 

The nations had loosely agreed to a no-bending policy during the talks, but seeing that Aang was standing atop a pile of rocks, Zuko loses all sense of decorum. 

He bends a warning blast in Aang’s direction, which he knows Aang will cut short with airbending. It’s an old training move, and Aang reacts on muscle memory, hands moving to deflect the flames. Zuko does not mean to harm Aang; the fire is simply a distraction to get everyone to stop talking. 

And they do. Aang deflects the blast and quiets. The others jolt at the fire, shouts quieting to murmurs, and then to silence. 

Zuko stands at the entrance, Sokka to one side, a Kyoshi Warrior on the other. 

“No more death.” He says. “If you don’t trust me, the Fire Nation will decide the treaty on our terms. But I won’t kill my father. The decision is yours.”

\--

There’s no chance of reigning in the fiery tempers of the nations scorned by war that day. Theirs is some disgruntled agreement among the men that, fine, they would rather have negotiations on their terms than a unilateral decision, but the Earth Kingdom storms off to confer with the rest of their large group, and the Fire Nation soon follows. The Northern Water tribe marches out of the room not long after. 

When Chief Hakoda rises, he turns to glance out the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. The sun is still rising; it is still morning. 

A servant comes forward to lead the Southern Water tribe to their rooms. Hakoda bids them leave. He sees Sokka, Aang, and Katara walk off, too, heads bowed together, deep in hushed conversation. 

“Well, brother?” Bato starts. He is still sitting at the abandoned table. They are the only two men left in the room. He puts down his knife, finally, and looks up at his chief. “Better or worse than you expected?” 

“It was good of our Northern brothers to remind us that we are the savages.” Hakoda says. “Otherwise I would not have known.” 

“We will be here another hundred years.” Bato says grimly. 

\--

At the end of the first day – this first short, disjointed day – Sokka lays on the ground of Zuko’s bed chambers with Aang and Katara, and the three await the arrival of the rest of their friends. 

They’d wandered around the Capital City that day, but without their Fire Nation clothes they’d been spotted easily, and after one too many gaping looks, the three decided to return to the castle. They’d spent the rest of the day inside, catching up, reminiscing. Katara had healed Sokka’s leg. 

Sokka’s splayed out on his back, staring up at the immaculate designs on the bedroom ceiling when the door opens. 

“Look at this group of intruders.” 

Sokka’s head jerks up. 

“Suki!” Aang and Katara cry. “Toph!”

Suki stands at the door, hands on her hips, smirking. She’s in full Kyoshi uniform and makeup. She accepts Aang and Katara’s forceful hugs. 

Toph’s at her side, in her own makeshift Kyoshi uniform, although she’d refused to wear makeup. 

“Toph, you look great!” Katara says, nearly picking her up with the strength of her embrace. 

“Are you a Kyoshi Warrior now?” Aang asks. 

“Yeah right.” Toph scoffs. “Just helping out with Sparky’s security right now.”

“He’ll need it.” Aang says gravely.   
“I’m glad you’re with him.” Katara agrees. 

“Hey you,” Toph says. “I can hear you breathing over there.” 

Sokka feels frozen in place. He’s managed to prop himself on his elbows and watch the interaction before him, but it seems so surreal. He mostly wants to soak them in, Suki and Toph. He didn’t know how good it would be to see them again. 

“How’s that leg?” Suki asks. She’s going for casual, but her eyes give away how happy she is to see Sokka once more. 

Katara helps Sokka to his feet and he limps over to Toph first, leaning down to hug her, ruffle her hair. He thinks of all the dreams he’s had lately, where he’s Toph on the zeppelin and he falls and falls and falls and this makes him hug her harder, until she squirms out of his grasp and jabs a finger into his chest. 

“Don’t go getting weepy.” She says. 

“I’m not weepy.” He tells her. 

“Who, this guy?” Suki teases. “Never.” 

“Suki.” He breathes out, and then he does feel like he’s going to cry, so he buries his head into her shoulder and holds her. 

“You’re getting soft.” She says. 

“Okay okay,” he says. “So I’m soft.” 

“I could’ve told you that.” Katara says. 

He rests his forehead against Suki’s for a moment. When he pulls back, they speak at once. They’re nervous, exhausted, worried, butterflies fluttering in their stomachs. 

“You’re beautiful—”

“Did you get my—”

“The notebook’s perfect, really—”

“I didn’t know if you already had—”

“Oh.” 

The five of them startle when Zuko suddenly appears at the door to his bedroom, still in his magnificent robes and headpiece. He’s flanked by two Kyoshi Warriors. 

“Uh,” he says. “Hi.” 

“It’s a sleepover, Sparky.” Toph says. “Just like old times.” 

Zuko nods. Toph could have told him they were all here to set the room on fire, and Zuko probably would not have reacted. He was exhausted, his chest hurt. He hadn’t had a thing to eat since the morning. 

“Suki,” one of the Kyoshi Warriors says. “Let’s go.” 

“Right.” Suki says. She untangles herself from Sokka’s embrace, but not before she kisses him on the cheek. “I’m on guard tonight.” 

“But—”

“Look at all these important people we have to keep safe.” She says, gesturing towards the group amassed in Zuko’s room. “You rest. I’ll be here in the morning.” 

“Okay.” Sokka says. He lets her go. 

“Toph, get some rest.” Suki says. “The rest of you, too.” 

Aang bows to her. “Thank you,” he says. Suki bows in return, and then she leaves, shutting the door behind her. 

“Are you guys staying here tonight?” Zuko asks. They’ve spent so many nights sleeping next to each other that there’s not really a question, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes off his headpiece and sets it aside. Katara reaches to help him with his robes. 

“That was the plan.” Sokka says with a shrug. 

Zuko nods. “Okay.” He says. “But I can’t talk tonight. I’m exhausted, I—”

“We understand.” Katara says. “Let’s just sleep. We can talk in the morning.”


	4. Sokka's plans, Hakoda's dignity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hakoda nods. “I will not let our children be indoctrinated.” He says. “We cannot lose sight of our culture.” 
> 
> “I wonder how long we can make these decisions for our children.” Bato says. “Before the children decide on their own what is best for them.”

They sleep like they’re at the air temple again, when it’s just the six of them and they could evade all responsibility except preparing for battle. They find an inherent comfort in being near each other once again. 

It’s early in the morning, five o’clock, maybe, when two Kyoshi Warriors quietly slide open the doors to the fire lord’s bedroom and allow Bato to enter. When he convinces the Warriors that he’s here for Sokka, not for Zuko, and shows that he is unarmed, they let him in. He’s passed their inspection.

The children have fallen asleep in various places throughout the room. That’s who they are, Bato reminds himself. Children. Some not even teenagers yet. But it’s been a long time since any of them have felt young. Bato understands this feeling. His childhood was cut short, too. 

Katara, Aang, and Toph occupy the massive bed in the center of the room, Katara and Toph under the covers, Aang lying at the end of the bed on his side with a blanket draped over his legs and his lemur tucked into his side. 

Zuko sleeps on a mat on the ground next to the bed. Without his regalia, he looks more like his age. His brows are furrowed. Even in his sleep, he is troubled. 

A few inches away from Zuko’s feet lay Suki and Sokka. Suki’s head rests on an outstretched arm. She’s got a fan clutched in her hand. Her other arm is tucked in against her chest, and she lays on her side, curled around Sokka, who’s flat on his back, dead to the world.

Bato kneels down next to the boy, places a hand on his shoulder. “Sokka,” he whispers. “Sokka.”

Sokka doesn’t stir at the noise, but Zuko does, eyes flying open. He sits up silently, and for a moment he looks scared. Bato holds up his hands in surrender. Some slight recognition crosses Zuko’s face, and he nods quickly, embarrassed. 

Zuko’s eyes fall to Bato’s side. Bato isn’t wearing his bandages; his burned side is exposed. Zuko doesn’t say anything, of course. He doesn’t say, your side. He doesn’t say, I’ve never seen a burn like that. Zuko, of all people, knows not to say anything. 

Instead, Zuko stands up, rubs his eyes. 

“You have to wake him up quickly.” Zuko explains, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s had trouble sleeping recently. You have to pull him out of it. Let me.” But it’s a question. Let me? 

Bato moves aside as Zuko kneels next to his friends. He rests a hand on Suki’s shoulder. She wakes easily, glances at the two men, categorizing the situation in her mind, and nods when Zuko gestures towards Sokka. She shuts her eyes again. 

Then Zuko takes Sokka by the shoulders and shakes him hard. 

Sokka jerks awake, eyes wide, whole body tensing. Zuko slaps a hand over his mouth before he can wake the others. Suki, eyes still closed, reaches blindly for Sokka’s hand, caressing it gently.

This is a routine, Bato understands. It’s not just that Zuko and Suki know Sokka hasn’t slept well, it’s that Zuko and Suki know Sokka hasn’t slept well and they know how to wake him up. He watches as Sokka slowly realizes where he is, as his chest slows in its heaving. Finally, he nods, hurried, and Zuko drops his hand. 

“Sokka,” Bato whispers. Sokka starts, noticing Bato for the first time. He flushes deep red. Bato pretends not to see. “It’s time.” He says simply. He holds out his hand to help Sokka up. 

Sokka nods, not quite able to meet Bato’s eyes. Suki still holds Sokka’s hand in hers. On the inside of her wrist, she bears the same insignia visible now on Bato’s outstretched hand. A fellow prisoner. Suki stares at his mark, and then meet Bato’s eyes. He nods at her. An understanding. 

Sokka hisses quietly as Bato tugs him up, adjusting his stance until he’s leaning on his good leg. From the ground, Zuko hands Sokka his journal. 

“Okay,” Sokka says. “I’m ready.” 

It is the fourth day of negotiations. Today, the Southern Water tribe will present their case for the future of their tribe.

\--

Sokka sits next to his father at the negotiations table, hoping he doesn’t look as tired as he feels. It’s certainly difficult for him to feel energized about the day’s talks when the other nations have made it abundantly clear the Southern Water tribe has no room to speak. 

“The Water tribes have already been spoken for.” A member of the Fire Nation says. “Fire Lord Zuko, please, I think it’s time we move on.” 

Chief Hakoda stands, hands behind his back, waiting patiently. The grumbling began as soon as he stood up, as he had expected. 

“Each nation gets their say.” Katara says from her seat. “We had to listen to you talk for the past four days. It’s our turn.” 

Sokka nods. He hears more grumbling about Zuko’s adolescent loyalties to his friends, but he doesn’t respond. He’s busy scribbling in his notebook. 

It’s true that the past four days of negotiations had been fairly irrelevant for the Southern Water tribe. The Earth Kingdom was primarily occupied with gestures – days of mourning, statues to the fallen, rebuilt villages. The Northern Water tribe wanted money to rebuild their military, and their illustrious palaces, and they wanted to be left alone. Oh, and they wanted the Southern Water tribe, too. 

“The reunification of the Water tribe is of crucial importance to us.” The chief had said easily. “We propose to take the Southern Water tribe back. Of course, I should not see why there would be any objections. Our Southern brothers have barely survived the past 100 years. We’d be doing them a favor.” 

“This is not my decision to make.” Zuko tried, and the chief had been quick to agree. 

“Fine print.” He said with a shrug. “It’s all fine print.” 

Now, Chief Hakoda stands and the others regard him with a mix of pity and boredom. Yes, him, they say. Let him have his say. He traveled so far. And then get on with it. 

Sokka had stayed up late the night before, discussing with the rest of the tribe their plans once more. Defense, defense, defense. The academy. Economic help. They had to make sure they left these talks with the resources to become whole once more, to have a chance to strengthen and build. There was nothing to rebuild. They just needed to build. 

Hakoda had nodded, mostly silent, letting Sokka and Katara speak for him. They so liked to speak. 

And now he stands, addresses these nations, these men. 

“Thank you to Fire Lord Zuko, first.” Hakoda says. “The Southern Water tribe is grateful this war has finally ended, and for the opportunity to speak.” 

Defense. Sokka scribbles into his journal. Defense defense defense. 

“I will separate the Southern Water tribe’s plans into two categories: what we need now, and what we’ll need later.” Hakoda continues. He stands taller, broadens his shoulders. “And what we need now are two things.” 

Defense defense defense stronger walls space swords better watchtowers. 

“Formal recognition of the independence of our tribe,” Hakoda says. “And reparations for the families affected by the imprisonment and genocide of our benders.” 

“Wait, what?” Sokka hears himself speak before he even thinks the words, and his words would be too quiet to hear if not for the dead silence in the room, the muffled surprise on the faces of the other ambassadors. 

“Dad…” Katara whispers, her eyes filling with tears.

Bato, on the other side of Hakoda, looks down. 

“For years, the Fire Nation conducted systematic raids of our villages.” Hakoda says. “Our people were massacred. Our benders were imprisoned in cages. My Northern brother spoke of our tribe’s weakness – we are not weak. We have been murdered. The families of those affected deserve recognition.” 

“Money.” A Fire Nation ambassador says. “They deserve money, you mean.” 

“Yes.” Hakoda says. “To rebuild their lives, and to know that the Fire Nation is not what it once was. Or do you deny these murders?” 

“Lots of people die in war.” 

“And civilians?” Katara snaps. “My mother was murdered in one of your raids.” 

“So you and your children would directly benefit from these reparations, is that right, Chief?” 

“As it happens,” Katara says. “I don’t need your blood money.” 

“Katara.” Hakoda says. Katara holds his gaze, doesn’t back down. 

“Would someone get the girl out of here?” 

“The girls stays.” Zuko says. It’s not the first time he’s had to tell the Northern Water tribe that the Southern Water tribe’s female ambassadors have a right to attend the talks. 

“You have taken parents from children, siblings from one another.” Hakoda speaks above the growing mummering. “My villages rely on families working together to support one another. Unless you can bring back the dead—”

“What’s the big deal?” someone from the Northern Water tribe says. “How much could reparations cost you? There’s probably less than fifty people down where they live. Just give them the money. But don’t give them their independence. As you said, Fire Lord, that’s not your call to make.” 

“I thought it was all fine print.” Zuko says. When this silences the ambassador, he turns back to Hakoda. “And what you’ll need in the future? The second category you mentioned.” 

“After these first needs are met,” Hakoda says, “then our tribe will need help to rebuild. Economic help, the reconstruction of our defense lines.”

Education education education education 

Sokka feels like he might be sick again when his father stops talking. His leg bounces up and down rapidly. He feels pin pricks of pain in his palm and opens his clenched fist – the pencil he had gripped in his hand had broken in two, jagged splinters poking in and out of his palm. 

“And?” Zuko asks. It’s a bone thrown to Sokka. He knows Sokka’s master plan, had heard him go over it enough times since his arrival, knew Sokka had grander plans than what his father was asking for. 

But Hakoda doesn’t budge. “Independence, reparations, reconstruction.” He says. “We are a prideful people. If you give us this much, we’ll grow stronger than our tribe has ever been. We only ask for this much.” 

\--

Sokka storms out of the room as soon as the ambassadors break for lunch. He can’t stand to look at his father, he can’t stand to hear his excuse, his reasoning, his logic. He doesn’t want to know why Bato didn’t look surprised at all, why Bato didn’t say a thing, but the rest of them, the rest of the chosen Southern Water tribe villagers, had been blindsided. 

He throws the pieces of pencil at the wall as he stalks away, then starts to tug at the splinters in his palm with his teeth. He doesn’t hear his sister behind him. He knew the moment she spoke up that she supported their dad’s change of plans. Loyal to him at the first mention of their mother’s murder. But wouldn’t their mother want the Southern Water tribe to prosper, and not apology money stained in blood and insincerity? 

“Eating your hand, young Sokka?” A voice stops him in his tracks. “I thought your leg was the issue.” 

Sokka turns in surprise. “You?” He says, dropping his reddening palm. 

Uncle Iroh holds a finger to his lips. “I am not officially here.” He says. “I had thought you would still be in your meeting. I was just outside admiring the beautiful day.” 

“Beautiful for you, maybe.” Sokka scoffs. “Not for me.” 

Iroh nods. He senses this. “Negotiating is much more difficult than fighting.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “I am having lunch with my nephew. You are welcome to join.” 

“No offense, General Iroh, but I’m not in the mood for sage advice right now.” Sokka says. “I have to think.” 

“Of course.” Iroh says, and he bows, which makes Sokka feel bad, feel embarrassed, this great man bowing to a kid like him. He bows back before he can think about it too long. By then, more people file out of the room, and Iroh disappears. 

Sokka sees his sister waving him over. He goes the other way. 

\--

Back in his bed chambers, Zuko sits at a small table next to his uncle. The blinds are drawn. Mostly to keep anyone from seeing Uncle Iroh. Also because Toph is still asleep in Zuko’s bed. 

Fire Lord Zuko had publicly disinvited anyone associated with Fire Lord Ozai from the negotiation talks. Iroh had made the ban list at his own suggestion. It wasn’t good politics to have him there, he explained. Zuko wasn’t sure he understood politics yet, but nodded. 

And so Iroh comes not as a general, but as an uncle, to see that his nephew eats. He pours him some jasmine tea and sees that he eats the meal he brought. A picnic, he says, it’s a picnic. 

“Your friend Sokka seems troubled.” Iroh says as he sets the teapot down. 

“Everyone’s troubled.” Zuko says. 

“Hm.” Iroh nods. He sips his own tea. “But not everyone is your friend.” 

“Negotiations have been tense, Uncle.” Zuko says by way of explanation. 

“Nephew.” 

“Okay.” Zuko says. “I’ll check on him.” 

There’s rustling from the bed behind them on the other side of the room. 

“Hey,” Toph says, voice scratchy, “what smells so good?” 

“Good afternoon, Toph.” Zuko says, turning around to glance at the young girl with mussed hair and dried drool near her mouth. “Thirteen hours of sleep, I think you beat your personal record.” 

“Would you like some tea?” Iroh asks. 

Toph nods, hopping off the bed. She rubs at her mouth, then her eyes, then the back of her neck. “Whew,” she says. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for a week.” She drags a blanket with her, and when she takes the empty seat next to Zuko she wraps it around her. 

“So, what’d I miss?” she asks, accepting the tea Iroh offers her. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Southern Water tribe day.” She reaches from some food on Zuko’s plate and he pushes the plate towards her. Soon Iroh does the same, and the two men sip tea quietly while Toph eats their food. 

“What?” Toph says, when she’s stopped eating long enough to sense the silence fraught with something else she can’t discern. “What happened at the talks?” 

“Nothing.” Zuko says. “But I don’t think Sokka is happy with his father’s speech.” 

“Sokka’s not happy with anything that’s not one hundred percent on his terms.” Toph returns. 

“Toph—”

“I’m not insulting him,” Toph says, “It’s just the truth. The guy who always has a plan? Yeah, he’s probably not gonna like it when he can’t plan something.” 

“He had plans.” Zuko says. 

“Sokka is no longer on his own.” Iroh says. “Perhaps he is struggling to readjust.” 

“To what?” Toph asks. 

“To authority.” Iroh says. “To not having the final word.” 

“No one’s voted on any decisions yet.” Zuko says. “There’s still time.” 

“And for what they are asking?” Iroh asks. 

Zuko shakes his head. “It seems reasonable to me.” He clears his throat. “They want reparations, for the raids, for what we did to their benders.” 

Iroh sets down his cup. 

There’s a knock on the door. Suki. 

“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says from outside the door. “I’m here to accompany you back to the meeting.” 

\--

There is one more ambassador who has been given space to speak. It is Aang, who, alone between empty seats, the last airbender, speaks not for the souls of his people, but for hope for the future. 

“I was a student for the first time in a hundred years.” Aaang says. “Here, in the Fire Nation. I was a student here. And all I learned was propaganda.” He shrugs. “But it got me thinking: if I had the opportunity to learn – actually, really learn – from the Fire Nation, from the Earth Kingdom, from the Water tribes, don’t you think we’d be better off? Don’t you think kids would be taught not to hate their neighbors?” He looks around the room. The men, normally so disgruntled, make concerted efforts not to snap at the Avatar. After his last outburst, they’re not eager to get on his bad side again. 

“I’ve listened to all of your proposals.” He continues, hands clasped together, “and I think you’re right to want to rebuild your nations. To look after your people. But…but I think the best thing we can do for all of our people is…well, I mean, what of instead of just rebuilding, we build bridges?” 

He had thought of that line the night before, when practicing his speech in front of Appa. It came out a lot better in front of an audience of one sky bison. He feels himself flushing, glances to his left for support. 

Katara is smiling at him. She nods at him, encouraging. Sokka, next to her, looks at his hands, brows furrowed. Aang’s not even sure he’s listening. 

“Uh,” Aang says, looking ahead again. “I want to propose a, sort of, teacher-exchange program. Where teachers from other nations teach students from other nations. So, if a teacher from the Earth Kingdom came to the Northern Water tribe for a year. And there could be student exchanges, too. Uh. Whatever you want, really. I just think—”

“An international education system.” Katara says. 

“Yes.” Aang nods. “An international education system.” 

“I like that idea.” Zuko says. He has rarely spoken so openly about anything said at the negotiations so far. “The Fire Nation would benefit from—”

“And how would we be assured that Fire Nation teachers would not indoctrinate our children with their propaganda?” A Northern Water tribe ambassador cuts in. 

“Well,” Aang says, “There should be a curriculum everyone agrees on.” 

“Hmm.” An ambassador from the Earth Kingdom says. “I can see your point, Avatar Aang. At Ba Sing Se University, we always accepted students from all nations before the war prevented us from doing so.”

“Yeah!” Aang says, growing excited. 

The ambassadors begin to mutter among themselves. Katara turns to Sokka. 

“What do you think?” she asks. 

Sokka had stopped staring at his hands when Katara had finally spit out the words international education. 

“I think it could work.” He says, looking more upbeat than he had that morning. “I think it’s a good plan. Katara, can you imagine if we had gone to those schools?” 

“You’d be top of the class.” Katara says earnestly. She touches his arm. 

Sokka flushes, shakes loose. “Okay, okay.” He says. 

They both turn towards their father, but Hakoda is busy speaking to Bato, his back turned from his children. 

Zuko lifts his hand and the talking quiets. “Avatar Aang,” he says, smiling slightly, “You may have found the key to unanimous agreement among the nations.” 

“No.” Bato says, finally speaking. He has remained silent since the talks began, this silent, tall warrior always at Chief Hakoda’s side, with the scars and burns and the prison tattoo and the tribal jewelry and the fierce stare at anyone who dares speak against his chief. 

“Fire Lord,” Bato says, “We are not in agreement.” 

“The Southern Water tribe will not participate in any international education program.” Chief Hakoda says. “The very idea is offensive to our culture.” 

“Dad!” Sokka says. 

“Again, these children—” the Earth Kingdom man groans. 

“Nothing further.” Hakoda says. “I respect Avatar Aang, but the Southern Water tribe will not participate.” 

\--

These are the pieces of his tribe Hakoda is left with when the war ends. He can hold the pieces in one calloused palm, there are so few of them. He has a navy, he has survivor’s guilt, and he has a culture resilient enough to withstand a century of raids and famine and poverty. 

When he returns to his village after so many years away, what he feels most is not pain, but pride for his people. It is a pride cultivated from homesickness, from nights at sea thinking of his childhood, thinking of traditions and ceremonies and his family. And turning to Bato, next to him, always next to him, and reminiscing. 

It is a pride cultivated from visits to strange lands, booming cities and empires, and thinking that, somehow, these magnificent places rang hollow to him. That their ornate buildings and paved streets did not lead to a truer understanding of the world. 

“I can’t see the water from here.” He remembers a warrior saying as they stood once in the middle of an Earth Kingdom city where they had stopped for provisions. And he remembers Bato had pointed to a line of running pipes, trailing along each one of the houses. 

“Here, the water comes to them.” Bato had said. 

At that point, Hakoda was five years into battle. He had already lost men and ships and morale. And he learned that to anyone not from his tribe, his people were those without. They weren’t people with plumbing and fine china and fancy clothing. They were those without. 

“I won’t charge you full price for this.” The man who packed their ship full of provisions said, pity in his eyes. “I know your people don’t have much.” 

“We have enough to pay you.” Bato said, bristling, standing next to Hakoda. Hakoda said nothing, but he nodded at Bato, who handed the man a small bag of money, tied with twine. 

“Full price.” Bato said. “Unless you’re unwilling to accept, we’ll be on our way.” 

“I meant no harm.” The man stammered. “Please, we’re on the same side here. We’re fighting the same war.” 

But Hakoda wasn’t sure. Perhaps this was true at first, he thought. Perhaps when the war first began, the remaining nations had banded together and strategized. But it seemed now, ninety-odd years in, that every nation operated independently of the other. And the Fire Nation was strong enough to wage three wars. 

The pity his warriors faced from the Earth Kingdom was only matched by the open hostility of the Northern Water tribe, who staunchly refused to allow their Southern counterpart to soil their rich military history. The Southern tribe insisted on their own uniforms, ships, and customs. If they simply fell in line, they might have been able to coordinate. 

It was always like this. And it was always clear to Hakoda that these people had not once stepped foot on the South Pole, had never truly spoken a member of the Southern Water tribe outside of a business transaction or a dismissal. 

“Our people have dignity, Bato.” Hakoda whispers one night. They’re anchored on the shore of an island, on unclaimed territory. He and Bato set up camp further away from the rest of the warriors, who speak animatedly around a campfire. 

Bato lays on his back in the sand, hands folded on his chest, eyes closed as Hakoda feeds their small fire, lost in thought. 

“Bato.” He says. 

“I heard you.” Bato says. “We have dignity.” 

“Bato,” Hakoda says again. 

“Hakoda.” Bato says, opening his eyes. “We have dignity. We are people like anyone else. You don’t have to prove this to them.” 

“It seems we’re the only ones who believe this.” Hakoda says. “We have a right to protect our land, our people, our culture.” 

Bato props himself up on his elbows, eyes fixed on the moon. “Do you know, brother,” he says, “if the Fire Nation took Ba Sing Se, took any of these cities, took the land right out from under them, so that all that remained were the buildings, the bridges, the palaces, no one would be able to tell the difference?” He pauses. “These cities are built around things. Structures. Materials.” 

“And our land?” 

“We are our land.” Bato says. “And if the Fire Nation took our land tomorrow, I fear we would cease to exist. This is why we must fight.” He settles back down on his back. “This ‘dignity,’” he says, “I’m not sure who decides who is dignified.” 

“Those who are rich.” Hakoda says. 

“Oh, we are rich.” Bato says. “We are rich.” 

When Hakoda returns to the Southern Water tribe at war’s end, he thinks of that night again, a night’s respite from battle on the shore of unclaimed land, Bato staring up at the moon and saying we are rich. And he believes Bato. Believes in the richness of his village, of the dignity of his people. 

Hakoda sees in his son’s eyes that Sokka does not believe the same. He feels that Sokka does not see the with. That he only sees the without. 

“We’re weak on all sides,” Sokka says during their late-night discussions at the Fire Nation, preparing for their treaty concessions. “Dad, we need a new line of defense.” 

And Hakoda agrees, of course he agrees, of course this is something he wants for his tribe, but he thinks of ice walls, bricks stacking higher and higher, until the great ocean isn’t visible anymore, and all Hakoda can see is the new line of defense. He thinks, the first line of defense in the Southern Water tribe has always been its warriors. 

And he thinks of dignity. He thinks of the preservation of the villages his tribe has left. And this, this to him seems the most pressing. After everything, after a century of bloodshed, the Southern Water tribe had held on, had stayed true to their culture, their ancestors. He thinks, we can’t lose our ways now. We can’t lose our dignity now. 

\--

“You’re upset.” Hakoda says, when Bato joins him on the balcony of the Fire Lord’s palace. It’s night, hours since the talks ended. Hakoda, like Sokka, needed space. He needed to think. He had walked back to the shore, back to the water. He had sat in the sand and stared out at the water and listened to the lapping waves and occasional birds. 

He’s back, now, still lost in thought, this time staring at the full moon, leaning against the wall. He’s not sure how Bato knows to find him, but here he is, anyway, sliding the door shut behind him and standing next to Hakoda. 

“Upset.” Bato says, mulling the word over. He watches as Hakoda crosses his arms over his chest, anticipating his friend’s response. 

“No,” Bato says. “Not upset.” He reaches into his pocket and hands Hakoda a piece of fruit. Then another. “You haven’t eaten.” 

Hakoda takes the fruit, nods his thanks. “Sokka?” he asks. 

“With his friends.” Bato says. “Katara found me earlier. She told me he would understand.” 

“He needs time.” Hakoda nods, looking down. 

Bato leans against the wall next to Hakoda. He crosses his arms. Looks at the moon. 

“In the end,” Bato says. “It’s all money. Nearly all our benders dead, Kya dead...you call it reparations, Sokka calls it defense planning. In the end it’s all just money.” 

“I would just as rather ask nothing from the Fire Nation.” Hakoda says. “But I am not too prideful to overlook this opportunity.” 

“Yes.” Bato says. He is silent for a moment as Hakoda eats. 

“And the schooling?” he finally asks. “The Avatar’s plan?” 

Hakoda shakes his head. “I cannot allow it.” 

Bato nods. “I am inclined to agree with you.” He says. He shrugs. “I am also inclined to think that if your children had gone to formal school, formal university—”

“Then they would still be in school.” Hakoda says. “They would not know how to fight. They would not have the resources to lead the Avatar to his destiny. They would only know books and calculations. We might still be at war.” 

Bato shrugs again. “I agree with you,” he says again. “I agree with you.” 

Hakoda nods. “I will not let our children be indoctrinated.” He says. “We cannot lose sight of our culture.” 

“I wonder how long we can make these decisions for our children.” Bato says. “Before the children decide on their own what is best for them.”


End file.
